


No Angels, Only Ghosts

by heffalumps, Katieee



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Arranged Musical Future, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Joke That Spiralled Out Of Control, Love Triangles, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heffalumps/pseuds/heffalumps, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katieee/pseuds/Katieee
Summary: Da'ae Lavellan is torn between her childhood sweetheart and the mysterious phantom who helped her find her voice. Is he the angel of music or something far more sinister?A tongue-in-cheek retelling of the Phantom of the Opera set in the Dragon Age universe.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, we went to see Phantom of the Opera and had a terrible thought in the interlude: Phantom of the Opera Inquisition AU. What started as a joke spiraled into this, and now we're committed to finishing it.
> 
> Please don't take it too seriously, because we certainly don't. Although it's hopefully better than the Gerard Butler version?

There were more spiders than people at the auction. 

The heavy red velvet of the opening curtain had faded with the dwindling crowds, the once-enraptured patrons now too afraid to enter the opera house for fear of the ghost of so many years ago. Once, there had been music, colour and laughter here — but none of that was in evidence anymore. The only hint of the previous splendor of these surroundings was the slight glint of gilding, just barely visible beneath the years of dust. 

“Lot six-six-five, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer called. “A papier-mache musical box in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a nug in Antivan robes playing the cymbals. This item discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentleman. Showing here.”

The crowd around the auctioneer, seemingly uninterested in the lot, dispersed as the piece was displayed. Yet Cullen remained enthralled, and with a tap of his assistant’s hand on his shoulder he told him to place his bid.

“Sold for thirty gold pieces, to the Vicomte de Chagny!” 

The bidding was over far quicker than he’d imagined it would be, and Cullen tapped his assistant’s hand a second time, indicating for him to wheel Cullen closer so he could inspect his new purchase.

It was exactly as she’d always described. Older, of course, the edges scuffed and paint peeling, but still in essence the same: a ceramic nug, cymbals in hand, sitting atop a music box. Whilst it was unwound, and likely had not sounded for years, he knew exactly the tune it would play. A tune he knew intimately; one which haunted his dreams since the fateful day he’d first heard it. When he’d almost lost her — the first time.

He reached out, hands far shakier than they had been in years gone by, and ran one finger across the burnished metal of the nearest cymbal. “Would you like me to play it for you, my Lord?”

Cullen nodded, and his assistant dutifully wound up the box. The first few — so distant, yet so familiar — notes were all he could stand; closing his eyes, he lifted his hand in signal, and his assistant immediately stopped the crank. Cullen sighed, unsure if the sudden silence that fell was a relief or a loss.

“Are you alright, my Lord?” 

Cullen nodded, eyes still closed, hardly trusting himself to speak. 

“Would you like to go home and rest, my Lord?”

He nodded again. His assistant placed the music box in his blanketed lap and turned to wheel him towards the door. His chair juddered over the long-neglected marble of the floor, and he wrapped one arm around the music box to still it, but he was too late. The final notes of the tune he’d decided never to play again chimed, unbidden and unwanted.

Would it still play, when the last of them was dead?

Behind them, the auctioneer announced the next piece: “lot six-six-six, then, ladies and gentlemen: a chandelier in pieces.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got drunk and wrote. Again. Thank you so much to the incredible Saltofoldlord for helping us with our little French Problem -- Salty, you're a babe! <3

_Val Royeaux_  
_Fifty years earlier_

-

When Karloah Mahariel sang, time stood still. It was as if, all of a sudden, the world fell away, and there was nothing left — nothing except her and her voice. 

It was a shame she couldn’t act.

Da’ae leaned on the heavy velvet curtain and sighed. When she had first seen Karloah’s rendition of the aria in the third act of _Calenhad_ , she’d been blown away — but after having seen her strut around the stage ten times over, she couldn’t help but feel that her teacher was right. The performance was exemplary in all ways except one: Karloah knew far too well how talented she was, and, as such, lacked the humility to carry the role to its fullest potential. 

It seemed as though she was not the only one who felt the same, with Zevran alone enraptured in her performance, lovestruck and content to watch on from the sidelines — a leading man only in name. Everyone knew it was Karloah who was the true star of the Opera Porte-Ciel, and Zevran was only too happy to step back and let the love of his life take the spotlight.

Her spotlight, however, was quickly ruined by a cough from somewhere behind Zevran.

“Ladies, gentlemen, could I have your attention, please?”

Karloah stopped mid-note and spun around to face the speaker. The expression if looks could kill flashed through Da’ae’s mind — for if they could, Monsieur Pavus would be a dead man. “Excuse me, Monsieur Pavus, I am _rehearsing_!” Karloah snapped at the theater owner, her shrill voice cutting like a dagger.

“Please, madame Mahariel, this is important,” Monsieur Pavus sighed. He stepped onto the stage, two men Da’ae had never seen before in tow: a short, stout man with tufts of chest hair protruding from the neckline of his low-cut shirt, and a dark-haired man with a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. “Surely you know I would not interrupt your rehearsal for anything that wasn’t a matter of great importance?”

Karloah didn’t deign to answer him, opting instead to continue her icy glare, and so Monsieur Pavus continued without interruption: “As you all know, for some time now, there have been rumours of my imminent retirement.”

A murmur ran through the crowd, and Da’ae stiffened in surprise. Of course, she’d heard the rumors — but Monsieur Pavus had always been an integral part of the Opera Porte-Ciel. She couldn’t imagine him ever even thinking of retiring, and had said as much when Merrill had tried to tell her otherwise. 

“Well, I am finally at liberty to tell you these rumors are all true, and so it is with great pleasure that I now introduce you to the two gentlemen who have purchased the Opera Porte-Ciel — Monsieur Varric Tethras and Monsieur Garrett Hawke.” Monsieur Pavus gestured to the men with a flourish.

Scattered, somewhat hesitant applause broke out as the gentlemen stepped forward. Da’ae blushed despite herself when the taller man winked at her, taking a place by Monsieur Pavus’s side with his colleague. Her staring was woefully interrupted as Karloah cleared her throat, extending a hand out towards the gentlemen expectantly. 

“Ah — Monsieurs, may I introduce you to Karloah Mahariel, our leading soprano for the last five years.”

“Enchanted, madame,” the dark-haired man murmured, bowing low over her hand and pressing his lips against her skin. “My name is Garrett Hawke, just Garrett to my friends. I would be very pleased to count you among that number.”

Zevran coughed from the sidelines. “And I would be her leading man,” he said. “Zevran Arainai — Zev, to _my_ friends.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, sir,” Varric said, bowing his head towards Zevran in greeting. 

“And now, if you do not mind, we were rehearsing!” Karloah snipped, pulling her hand away abruptly. “Signor Pavus, if you wish for us to be ready for tonight, you must allow us to continue!” 

Monsieur Pavus bowed in deference and Karloah turned away, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “From the top, then, maestro,” she instructed the conductor, who hurried to oblige her. Her aria began anew, the notes resonating across the theater once more. 

“ _Think of me, think of me fondly_ —”

A shadow fell across her face, and her lyrics cut off with a gasp as she jumped back, just in time to avoid the backdrop crashing down onto her. Tripping over the beaded hem of her costume, she fell to the floor with a thud. 

Before anyone else had a chance to react, Zevran was by her side. “My love, are you alright? Karloah?”

A trill of fear ran through the assembled crowd. Suddenly, Merrill was by Da’ae’s side. “It’s him!” she exclaimed, her hand grasped tight on Da’ae’s forearm. “It’s the phantom of the opera!”

“Well, gentlemen, I believe I’ve given you all the assistance I can,” Monsieur Pavus announced, stepping back and lifting his hands in the air. “I wish you the best of luck. If you need me, I shall be in Tevinter.” 

He turned on his heel, his heavy cloak streaming behind him as he darted off toward the door without so much as a glance behind him. Varric and Hawke stared at his retreating back, dazed.

“Signors!” Karloah grunted, rising to her feet. “What are you going to do about this?!”

“About what?” Varric asked in confusion.

“This! These incidents! These incidents that keep happening, distracting me from my art!”

“Ah, but madame, everything is alright, is it not? These things do happen, unfortunately, but the main thing is that no one has been harmed,” Hawke attempted smoothly. “It was an accident, nothing more.”

“‘These things do happen...” Karloah muttered. “No! For the past five years, these things have happened. But enough! Until you stop these things from happening, _this thing_ will not happen!” She gestured to herself dramatically. “Zevran! Come!”

Karloah swept off, following the path taken by Monsieur Pavus not a minute before. “Amateurs,” Zevran quipped as he, too, made his way out the door, hot on Karloah’s heels.

Varric’s eyes widened. “La Karloah will be back, won’t she?”

“She must be,” Hawke said assuredly.

“You think so, monsieur?” Madame de Fer asked coolly as she stepped forward. Until that point, the dance instructor had been content to simply observe her dancers’ progress. Now, she raised her hand, a letter clutched between her elegant fingers. “I have a message for you from the Opera Ghost.”

Da’ae shivered; she’d heard the stories, and, as loathe as she was to admit it, even she’d seen the strange happenings at the opera house of late. Items moving as if by themselves, doors slamming in corridors without so much as a gust of wind to push them and flickering shadows cast by the candlelight. There was something afoot at Opera Porte-Ciel.

“The Opera Ghost?” Varric’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead.

“Oh, Andraste’s knickers, you’re all obsessed!” Hawke sighed. “There is no such thing as an opera ghost.”

“He welcomes you to his theater,” Madame de Fer continued as if they hadn’t spoken. “And instructs to leave box five empty for his personal use. He would also like to remind you that his salary is due on the first of the month.”

“His salary?!”

“Monsieur Pavus used to give him twenty thousand gold sovereigns a month,” Madame de Fer said simply. “But perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte as your patron?”

“Well, yes, we had rather hoped to make that announcement tonight at the opening of Calenhad,” Varric grumbled. “But it seems we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!” 

“Da’ae Lavellan could sing it, sir!” Merrill exclaimed, too quick for Da’ae to shush her. Both Hawke and Varric turned their eye on Da’ae, and once again she blushed under their gaze. “She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher.”

“Could she?” Varric asked skeptically.

“Let her sing for you, sir,” Madame de Fer piped in. “She has been well taught.” 

Hawke and Varric exchanged a look. “This is doing nothing for my nerves, Hawke.”

“What’s the harm, Varric?” Hawke grinned. “She _is_ nice to look at.”

Varric shrugged. “From the beginning of the aria then, please, mademoiselle.”

The crowd turned toward Da’ae expectantly, and her stomach twisted. She’d sung on her own many times before, of course, with only one other in the audience; her father, in years gone by, and more recently her teacher, whom she trusted to never betray her confidence. Never before had she been asked to perform for so many people. She was sure her nerves would be obvious in the tremor of her voice, but she saw no way out, all around her looking on expectantly as they waited for her performance.

A breath of a whisper in her ear urged her forward, barely audible but somehow truer to her than the fear within. “ _Sing for me_.”

Compelled by the voice, Da’ae stepped forward — and, as the music swelled, she opened her mouth to sing.


End file.
